


Ficlet Collection

by Atiki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Foot Jobs, M/M, Mulled wine, Public Sex, They love each other a lot okay, What happens after New Year's Eve dinner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/pseuds/Atiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets / short fics (1000-3000 words) that were originally posted on tumblr. Chapters stand alone. Mostly PWP.</p>
<p> <i>Sherlock has spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about kissing John. He's never imagined it like this. He’s built it up in his head as a careful, meaningful second of contact between them. Nothing but a peck on the lips that burns through his skin and rushes through his arteries and makes its way to his fierce, brilliant brain where he can save it, treasure it, keep it save.</i><br/><i>When it happens, it’s nothing like that. Probably because he never really expected it to happen in the first place.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Extended Festivities

**Content Warning:** Drunk sex. Nobody is wasted, just pleasantly tipsy. But still.

Apart from that, who doesn't love Christmas/New Year's Eve smut in June. Enjoy.

\---

 

 

**Extended Festivities**

 

John’s lips taste like chocolate and cinnamon and a bit like mulled wine and _John, John, John_. It’s not what Sherlock should be concentrating on, but taste seems to be the only sensation that’s still somewhat clear in his alcohol-addled mind.

This is the sort of thing that should be happen when they’re both sober, he decides. He’s sure of it, actually. It should be happening after a conversation, after a build-up, when he’s had time to think it through, because Sherlock Holmes does not appreciate being overwhelmed. Not usually.

He’s never really done this before. He’s never gone all the way.

He’s never done this with John, he remembers, which is infinitely more important.

John’s mouth is no longer on his by the time he is being pressed against the door of his own bedroom, which is inconvenient, so Sherlock tries his best to fix it. His lips find John’s after a bit of searching and fumbling and it’s – it’s—indescribable, really.

Sherlock has spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about kissing John. He never imagined it like this. He’s built it up in his head as a careful, meaningful second of contact between them. Nothing but a peck on the lips that burns through his skin and rushes through his arteries and makes its way to his fierce, brilliant brain where he can save it, treasure it, keep it save.

It’s nothing like that. Probably because he never really expected it to happen in the first place.

But it has happened, all of a sudden and Sherlock isn’t even sure where it started. Mrs Hudson’s early New Year’s Eve dinner was full of lingering glances and accidental touches; Turkey, pudding, mulled wine, sparkling eyes and laughter, so much laughter. A steadying arm around his waist on their way upstairs, giggling and hands touching and… a kiss was the inevitable outcome of it all, somehow. It’s unexpected and yet so simple. It’s warm and real and wildly physical, and it’s so much better than he ever dared hope. It’s perfect. It’s home.

John giggles into his mouth and Sherlock opens his eyes briefly. His eyelids feel heavy. His alcohol tolerance has never been anywhere near acceptable, really, but this is simply annoying. This is not the right time to be confused. He can feel John’s hand glide down his back, along his spine. It stops right before it reaches his arse, which is terribly frustrating.

John pulls away a bit and smiles at him. His smile is wide and genuine and a little dopey, and Sherlock can’t help but smile back.

“Are you – Is this alright?” John asks, and his hand slips downwards, just slightly.

“Yes,” Sherlock says and leans forward to kiss him again, “yes, John.”

 

Sherlock Holmes has had two cups of mulled wine and he is kissing John Watson and he’s going to sleep with him and this, this is more than alright.

 

John grabs two hands full of his arse and slots their hips together, and Sherlock can feel how immensely alright this is for both of them. In other words, they’re both hard and there’s no space left between them, and whatever the hell is about to happen, it needs to happen _now_.

John opens the bedroom door and pushes Sherlock towards the bed; He manages to switch the light on (somehow), guides Sherlock with both arms firmly around his waist when he stumbles backwards and nearly loses balance. They’re still giggling, Sherlock notices, they haven’t stopped giggling since they’ve started and Sherlock feels warm and bubbly and like he is precisely where he belongs.

John kicks off his shoes and leans down to take off his socks. Sherlock watches him, somewhat transfixed by the curve of John’s back and his arse in his jeans. It takes him a while to conclude that he should get out of his clothes too, just to speed things up a little, because in this surreally brilliant scenario they’re currently in, they’re about to have sex. And evidence suggests that sex is done without clothes.

John is unbuckling his belt by the time Sherlock’s feet are naked and Sherlock tries to hastily unbutton his shirt but his fingers tremble a bit too much to do it properly.

“Don’t,” John says promptly, taking a step closer and covering Sherlock’s hand with his, “don’t—let me do this for you. Let me undress you.”

“Ah,” Sherlock mumbles eloquently, noticing that John is no longer wearing his jeans and his pants are… well. Grey and kind of silky. And tented.

Sherlock isn’t entirely sure _how_ he lands on his bed with John on top of him, but he knows that John is unbuttoning his shirt and kissing every inch of bare skin he can reach, and he also knows that right now, this is exactly where he wants to be.

“You’re beautiful,” John breathes, “you—you make me crazy, Sherlock, you drive me bloody insane, I look at you and I can’t think straight, I don’t know how I  could stand it for so long without going mad because I’m—I’m completely gone on you, I’m—I don’t even—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupts him, “When you’re done with your monologue, I would really like you to fuck me.”

John giggles into the crook of his neck in response to this. “I think I can do that,” he tells him sincerely, “I’m pretty sure I can do that, yes. I would really like to do that, actually.”

“You’re rambling, John,” Sherlock says.

“Mmh. Yes.” John gives Sherlock a big, smacking kiss on his lips, “I can’t believe I’m—I’m asking you this, but do you have… supplies?”

Sherlock eyes him.

“Lube and condoms, Sherlock,” John mumbles, “please tell me you have—“

“Yes, I— Bedside table.”

John slips off him and Sherlock takes the opportunity to get out of his shirt. He unbuckles his belt too, but he’s only pushed his trousers down below his bum by the John crawls back on top of him. John feels deliciously warm and soft. So very soft. Sherlock pulls him close and kisses him until he can’t breathe and John mumbles into his mouth that they need to get naked.

Sherlock concludes that’s a splendid idea.

Sherlock is down to his pants mere seconds later and he can’t stop staring at John’s cock straining against his pants and his belly feels like it’s full of butterflies and he’s never wanted to touch anything more desperately in his life.

“Now what are we—is this alright?” John whispers as gently pushes Sherlock’s legs apart and kneels down between them, “are you sure you want to do it like this? Want me to go all the way? Because we can wait, I can wait as long as you want me to if you're not sure, I—“

Sherlock places one hand firmly on John’s arse and squeezes a bit. “You’re talking too much,” he announces.

John raises one eyebrow. “I just want to know we’re both on the same page, because I—I don’t want to pressure you… or anything.”

Sherlock grabs unopened bottle of lubricant, places it in John’s hand and spreads his legs. “John Watson,” he says emphatically, “I would very much like you to get my pants off so you can fuck me up the arse.”

John’s mouth drops open. “Well,” he says somewhat distractedly, “yes.”

Sherlock lifts his butt a bit so John can pull his pants down and shimmies out of them, and then he watches as John gets naked; John Watson is literally naked and ready for him in his bed and Sherlock can feel his erection against his thigh and he thinks he might cry with the sheer immensity of it all, but he just pulls John close and buries his face in his neck and kisses his pulse point until he can breathe properly again.

“Okay,” John says, “let’s—let’s open you up. Nice and slowly, huh?”

“Not slowly.” Every second John isn’t as physically close to him as possible is wasted right now and he wants this, god, he really does.

John reaches between Sherlock’s legs and closes his fist around his cock. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and shivers.

“Careful,” he bites out, “don’t—don’t make me—It’s too soon.” It occurs to him that being so close to ejaculation during what is essentially foreplay should be somewhat embarrassing, but he doesn’t really care. Not when John’s hand is where it currently is.

“Mmh.” John smirks. “Sensitive, are you?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock scoffs and wiggles his butt in John’s direction. This is going way too slow.

“Alright.” John squeezes a generous amount of lube onto his hand and slowly guides his index finger down Sherlock’s perineum and further.

Sherlock bites his lip when John’s fingers reach his arsehole. John taps against it, presumably to loosen the muscle, and Sherlock’s physical response is… interesting. His cock gives an affirming twitch and every tap of John’s finger makes its way up Sherlock’s spine and to his brain, and within seconds he’s frighteningly close to losing his grasp on reality.

This is really happening. And judging by John’s gentle determination, the mulled wine isn’t even entirely to blame. Plus, John’s had less of it than Sherlock.

“You’re incredible,” John whispers, “relax for me, hmm? Relax, let me in.”

“S’not—not that easy,” Sherlock says, which is followed by an extremely undignified sound that might be a gasp or, god forbid, a sob. It’s too much and not enough at the same time and John is smiling at him and rubbing his belly to soothe him and it’s – it’s perfectly bittersweet and it aches a bit, but in the very best of ways. It’s incredible.

 

Being loved must feel like that, Sherlock thinks. Not that he can verify that.

 

“I know it’s not easy,” John says and pushes a bit harder, “but you’re doing so well. You’re perfect.”

His finger slips in on Sherlock’s next exhale and it feels – wonderful. Decadent and right and less intrusive than it probably should.

“More,” Sherlock says, “more please.”

“You’re tight,” John whispers in awe, “am I hurting you?”

“No, you aren’t,” Sherlock says, “more.”

John pulls out and pushes back in with two fingers, gives Sherlock a moment to accommodate to the pressure.

“I’m ready, “Sherlock states, because really, this should be happening a lot faster. “F-fuck me. I need—“

“Just a second.” John tracks down the lube that’s disappeared somewhere between the covers and finally, _finally_ adds a third finger. “Want to make sure you’re ready.”

It’s silent for a minute or two, or maybe an hour or a lifetime (Sherlock isn’t really sure), save for the wet sounds of John’s fingers moving in and out of Sherlock. And their heavy breathing.

“I can’t—I need to be inside you now, “ John murmurs after an eternity, and he sounds lost and helpless, completely lost in his desire. Sherlock has never heard anything nearly as arousing in his entire life and this, this is it, he can’t wait any longer.

“Do it,” he says, “I want you to. Please.”

John swallows. “Alright,” he says. His fingers shake when he tears the foil packet open and rolls the condom on. “Why do you even have condoms and lube next to your bed?” he asks.

“Experiment,” Sherlock says, “well, when I say experiment—“ The decision to purchase the dildo in the bottom drawer might have been more of a… personal empirical study, but now is not the right time to tell John that.

“Forget about it,” John says distractedly and places both hands firmly on Sherlock’s hips to pull him into his lap. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him, “Get—Do it now.” He can feel John’s hot, hard cock against his left arse cheek and he thinks he might die if he doesn’t get to feel it inside him within the next ten seconds.

John lines himself up and slides into him with one sharp thrust. Sherlock’s back arches and he squeezes his eyes shut, because the delicious pressure inside him is almost too much to bear.

“Oh God,” John whispers, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hips. “Sherlock, oh my God.”

“Move,” Sherlock tells him, tilting his head back. He would love to kiss John now, but John is still looking completely lost, kneeling between his legs, his cheeks flushed and his bottom lip trembling.

“This isn’t going to be—I’m not going to last,” John bites out, “you feel incredible, divine, I won’t be able to hold back once I’ve started, I—“

“I don’t care,” Sherlock whispers and pushes back against John.

“Have you ever—done this before?” John gasps out as he thrusts in for the first time, slowly, experimentally.

Sherlock braces himself against the headboard with one hand and pushes, pulling John impossibly deeper inside hm. “Is this the right time to talk about that?”

“No,” John admits, “we should have talked about that sooner. I should have asked. But I couldn’t think, I—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock says, “I’m—I should have told you.”

“So you haven’t? You have never—“ John stops moving, which is entirely unacceptable.

“No,” Sherlock gasps, “But it isn’t—it’s good. I wanted you to be my… first.” He feels the blood rush to his face. “John, I don’t know if this is acceptable by conventional social standards but I wanted it to happen with you, I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—“

John’s eyes are wider than Sherlock has ever seen them. “You wanted it to happen with me?”

“I believe,” Sherlock gasps out between John’s next two, blissful thrusts, “that’s what I just said.”

“You’re incredible,” John says. (He says that a lot today, really.)

John leans down to kiss him and finally, finally Sherlock can wrap his arms around him and pull him close and kiss him back.

John doesn’t try to draw it out, and Sherlock is rather thankful for that. He fucks him fast and steadily, groans into his mouth, loosens Sherlock’s grip where he’s clutching at the bedsheets and interlaces their fingers.

“I’m—shit, Sherlock I’m going to come,” he murmurs, “We’ve only just started but I’m going to come in you.”

“Please do.” Sherlock shivers and reaches down to stroke his own aching cock while John pushes into him over and over. His eyes are closed, he’s blushing, his muscles trembling, he’s obviously on the very edge of orgasm. John’s last thrusts are deep and erratic. He comes with a shaky exhale, collapses in Sherlock’s arms, presses kisses to his skin and trembles like a leaf.

Sherlock has never loved anyone like he loves John right now. Completely, with his mind and body and everything he has to give.

“Fuck,” John says as he pulls out, “that—that was.”

“I agree,” Sherlock tells him and kisses the top of his head, smiles when John’s hair tickles his nose. The emptiness inside him feels foreign and unpleasant. It’s as if his body wants John to be a part of him.

John is determined to make Sherlock come as soon as he has his breath back.

Sherlock does not object.

John strokes him slowly, kisses him, smiles against his lips, tells him how beautiful he is like that, and Sherlock whimpers his release into his mouth when he comes all over his hand.

“Is that what it’s going to be like?” Sherlock asks carefully as John cleans them up with some random item of clothing (might as well be the duvet, actually). “I mean is this—is this what we’re doing now?”

John frowns. “The sex?”

“The—the everything,” Sherlock tells him eloquently. He doesn’t know how to phrase this.

“That rather depends on you,” John says thoughtfully.

“Will you sleep with me?” Sherlock asks, “I mean, will you stay here tonight?”

John lifts the covers for them to crawl under. “I would love to,” he murmurs and pulls Sherlock in his arms, buries his nose in is curls. Sherlock’s heart beats in his throat and he’s never been warmer and more safe, and John is holding him. He’s finally holding him.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock says simply, because not saying it is simply not an option. Not after what they just did. It might be a mistake, because this might not be what John wants to hear right now, but it’s all Sherlock can think about, it spills out of him like an avalanche and he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

John swallows. “I love you more,” he says after a pause.

Sherlock’s heart misses a beat. Then another one. “This is highly improbable,” he finally says, “I’m not sure if love is quantifiable, though there have been studies concerning oxytocin levels during--”

“I don’t give a crap about studies,” John informs him.

Sherlock yawns. His chest feels like it’s on fire, but in a very pleasant way. Might be the alcohol. Might be the fact that John said he loves him and a part of him actually wants to believe it’s true.

“Why don’t we go to sleep,” John says, “and tomorrow, when you’re hungover and grumpy because you can’t handle two glasses of mulled wine, we going to fight about how much we love each other. Because I think we really, really do. A lot. And we're idiots, and we wasted so much time, we--" He cuts himself off, yawns.”

“Okay.” Sherlock snuggles closer. “Can we fuck some more when we’re done fighting?”

“Of course we can, love,” John mumbles into Sherlock’s riot of curls as Sherlock slowly drifts off, “of course we can.”

 

 


	2. Indecent

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

John has never been the type of man who thinks that first times have to be life-changing. He doesn’t fantasize about orgasmic declarations of love and perfect moments of brightness during sex, he doesn’t need any of this. Sex is real. Sex is organic and messy and bloody amazing; it doesn’t have to be a ridiculous romantic fantasy.

This, however, is obscene. Not the way he was expecting to consummate this relationship for the first time- All in all it’s just entirely indecent.

 

It’s fucking brilliant.

 

It all happened spontaneously. It happened because suddenly, touching Sherlock’s left foot under the table just wasn’t enough. And then, taking off his shoe and running his foot along Sherlock’s calf wasn’t enough either. And then, moving his foot up his thigh was literally nowhere near enough, because Sherlock flushed and started to blink way too rapidly, and that, then, was the moment John threw his inhibitions overboard.

Here they are. And goddamn it, Sherlock is beautiful when he squirms.

“You’re doing so well,” John whispers, and Sherlock swallows. Bites his lip. Tries to stay quiet.

It’s slow, what they’re doing. Tentative. Experimental. Appropriate for a first time that feels so natural and strangely meaningful at the same time. This, of course, is perfectly acceptable foreplay. Or it would be, if they were at home, in private. Which they are not.

 

They’re sitting in a booth at Angelo’s, instead; with Tagliatelle alla Romana and wine and a candle, on their first proper date as a couple, and John should have probably expected this to happen, given that they really can’t stop touching each other, now that they’re allowed to. And they’re past the point of no return right now.

 

John puts his fork aside, pushes his nearly empty plate away from him, lets his foot glide upwards, just slightly. A muscle twitches under the ball of his foot. Sherlock can’t keep still. So responsive already.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, sounding slightly alarmed. “I’m—“

“Shh,” John says. His foot slides a few inches further, closer to Sherlock’s crotch. “You haven’t finished your pasta.”

“It’s… it’s hard to--”

John gives him a stern look. “You need to eat, Sherlock- You haven’t eaten all day.”

“But I’m-- I’m getting--” Sherlock gives him a helpless look but does not make an attempt to remove John’s foot from the vicinity of his crotch. John lets it slide closer.

Sherlock picks up his fork, rather aggressively stabs his noodles and takes a bite.

John gives him an approving look and moves his foot closer. Sherlock’s crotch seems to be radiating heat, but John might be imagining that, The way Sherlock’s flush deepens when he’s embarrassed might be the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. His trousers are already getting uncomfortably tight.

Sherlock takes another bite, slower this time. He swallows his pasta and squeezes his eyes shut. “John, I’m-- you might not want to move your foot further up.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. “Why not?”

“Because I’m-- I’m already--” Sherlock fidgets, folds his hands on the table.

“Because you’re what?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Hard,” he mouths soundlessly.

In one smooth movement, John lets the sole of his foot glide upwards and presses it directly against Sherlock’s cock that really is fully hard in his trousers. “Good,” he says simply and takes a sip of his wine.

Sherlock’s mouth drops open, and he lets out a quiet sound of sheer desperation. He doesn’t try to move away, though. He is actively, silently accepting everything John is offering, and oh, he is brilliant.

An elderly gentleman who’s dining alone turns his head. Thank god the tablecloth is hiding what’s going on under the table.

John adds a bit of pressure. “Another bite,” he orders.

Sherlock complies. Swallows. Takes a deep breath. He doesn’t speak, he waits for John to reward him instead. He’s already understood how this game works; he’s a smart man, after all. Most probably the smartest man in London.

And John does reward him. He moves his foot along Sherlock’s cock, from the root to the tip, and down again. Sherlock lets out a moan John isn’t sure he’s aware of.

The elderly gentleman smiles at his fish and clearly knows what they’re doing. John leans forward a bit and gently places his hand on Sherlock’s. Then he repeats the motion and feels Sherlock twich against him. Sherlock’s fork hits the floor with an audible clink. John interlaces their fingers.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers, stroking Sherlock’s cock with the bottom of his foot. “You’re so good, Sherlock. So beautiful. You’re doing so well.”

“John,” Sherlock huffs. He’s starting to move his hips to create more friction, John realises. His pupils are wider and his breath is shaky on the exhale and he’s starting to sweat. John marvels at the feeling of his hard, twitching cock, so close to his own skin, only a few layers of fabric between them.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, “you need to stop. I can’t-- anymore, it will be over--”

John begins to rub his own cock through his trousers. The pressure is becoming unbearable, and Sherlock is so sensitive, so incredibly gorgeous and John brought him to the edge so soon, so shamelessly, in public, just with his foot, because he couldn’t wait-- “Let go,” John tells him, “finish. I want you to.”

“Really?” Sherlock looks actually startled about that.

Yes,” John says firmly, “here. Now. Or do you want to go home like this? Hard and aching? And wait for me to take care of you?” The prospect isn’t entirely unpleasant either, John has to admit that.

Sherlock whimpers, rolls his hips. He’s unbelievably beautiful like this, reduced to quiet moans and gasps and a primal, animalistic need to rut and find release.

John doesn’t care that they’re in public, he doesn’t care that people around them can probably hear Sherlock’s heavy breathing and the elderly gentleman is openly staring at them. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters, Sherlock is so incredibly fucking hot like this and John can’t believe they waited so long--

“God,” Sherlock bites out, followed by another breathy moan. He’s nearly there. The sheen of sweat on his forehead glitters in the flickering candlelight. John adds a bit of pressure, moves his foot up and down once more. Sherlock is rock hard against the sole of his foot. Must be aching. Sherlock reaches down with his free hand and holds John’s foot in place as he ruts against it.

“Oh god,” Sherlock repeats, squeezing his eyes shut, moving back and forth on his chair in wild desperation.

So close, god, so close--

A soft, quiet “oh” escapes Sherlock’s lips when he comes, a sound of wonder and surprise and satisfaction, and John can feel his come soak his trousers, and for a moment he wonders if he’s about to come as well because this is easily the most ridiculously arousing moment of his life.

 

He pulls his foot away from Sherlock’s crotch the moment Angelo approaches their table.

“Everything alright?” Angelo asks, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, uh, perfectly alright,” John says. “Thank you, Angelo.”

Angelo eyes the rest of Sherlock’s tagliatelle. “You didn’t finish. You didn’t like it?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but seems completely unable to form words.

“He was distracted,” John says.

“Uh. Yes,” Sherlock confirms while making an awkward attempt to put on his coat without getting out of his chair. “Bit distracted.” His voice is still slightly shaky.

Something like realisation lights up in Angelo’s eyes. “Ah,” he says, “well then. No bill for you, gentlemen. Everything on the house, as usual.”

“Thank you,” John says, reaching for his jacket.

Angelo smirks. “More plans for the evening?”

“Oh, definitely. Loads of plans.” John side-eyes Sherlock who’s buttoning up his coat as fast as he can. John wouldn’t have thought Sherlock could blush an even deeper shade of red, but as it turns out, he can.

 

John places his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to guide him as they leave the restaurant. Sherlock manages to trip over a chair anyway. He falls and swears, and John helps him up and takes him home to take care of him. To kiss the bruise on his thigh better, and to kiss him all over.

Because that’s what John will do later tonight. Multiple times.


End file.
